


Howls of the Night

by HappyPrincess



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Girl Direction, New Year's Eve, zourry friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 00:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17233898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyPrincess/pseuds/HappyPrincess
Summary: In a world of harsh things, Louis’ lips look soft and forgiving.





	Howls of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a werewolf au despite the title suggesting it, whoopsie.  
> Honestly, it's almost 3am and I've been way too harsh to myself, and this is just. Words. Comfort. Part memory, Part sadness. 
> 
> Love xx

As soon as she gets a glimpse of the room, Harry stumbles backwards and turns around only to get caught up in the sight of Zayn and Louis sitting on the stairs leading up to the next floor. They're both watching her despite speaking to each other, shoulders dropped, fingers on each other’s knees, coats next to them on the banister. Without thinking, she pads over to them, mind still whirring and limbs trembling. She ignores their hesitant hellos, brushes their shoulders, and sits down a couple of steps above them, out of hearing distance, but near enough for them to blink at her in bewilderment.  

“You alright?” Zayn calls, her dark eyes filled with worry. Her hair is greener than yesterday. 

Harry nods and avoids her gaze, gets stuck on Louis’ clumped lashes, her sore lips, her dishevelled hair. She has clearly been crying, has clearly opened her heart and soul to Zayn, and Harry all but interrupted them just because she can’t set foot into a room that’s buzzing with the voices of joyful people. “Don’t, uh, mind me, I’m just... catching my breath.” 

“No, no, I was done whining anyway,” Louis says, and Harry instantly remembers last week when _she_ was the one complaining to Zayn about feeling overwhelmed, and _Louis_ had walked up to them, grin waning as she had seen Harry’s emotional state.  That was the third time they had every interacted, that one class on queer history excluded because despite practically being the only ones taking part in the discussions in that one, they never shared more than a few gay grins and knowing winks. This is something completely different. And it’s not like they hadn’t felt comfortable around each other before, it’s not like she hadn’t thought about kissing Louis here and then, but right now she feels a soft tugging at her heart, as if they were connected by the string of a violin or something equally as delicate.  

“Please don’t stop because of me, I literally just need to sit down. I don’t wanna...” 

“Didn’t want to say hi, hm?” Zayn smirks, and that’s, that’s part of their thing, of their teasing and touching and taking everything in life way too seriously.  

“Sorry.” 

Louis rolls her red rimmed eyes, then pats the space next to her. “C’mon, share your suffering with us. Is it the party?” 

The party is hosted by the student committee and it’s the only time the majority of the undergraduates get the chance to get together, everyone’s been talking about it, everyone’s agreed to come, everyone’s in that tiny room, laughing, drinking, chumming with professors. Music is simmering in the few spaces between the bodies, air thick and impenetrable, a wall to keep her out. Harry stares at the back of a head that looks familiar, at the two boys from her Monday afternoon class blocking most of the view, and then slides down until she’s at a level with Louis and Zayn. It’s mostly her trembling fingers that make her hide her hands between her thighs, but it’s also the sudden urge to grip the collar of Louis’ button up and pull her in.  

“I don’t really like big crowds.” 

Zayn giggles, the sound almost inaudible in the noise of the building. “Sure, you don’t.” 

“No, I mean like... uhm. It’s so. Sudden. And, like. There." 

There’s another snort from Zayn, but Louis hums and her eyes are still so so blue in contrast to the red circles beneath them and her bottom lip is shiny and the curve of her neck is beautiful and her expression is so, so understanding. “I’ll hold your hand. We can go in there together, all three of us. Like a threesome.” 

It genuinely makes her laugh, which makes her muscles ease a little, something Louis observes with a smile, so she pretends to relax further, slumps down a bit. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“I don’t want to stay for too long, just wait until the book auction is done and then kill my brain with Netflix. I really don’t care if we walk in there looking weird as fuck, I promise.”   
If there’s something everyone knows about Louis, it’s that she is bold. Loud voice, loud tattoos, loud laughs, loud Doc Martens as she stomps through the university halls. But Harry also saw her pinching herself that one time she said something, well, stupid in class. And she sees the way Louis sometimes fiddles with her fringe until she notices someone watching her, quick to broaden her shoulders, widen her stance. And she sees her holding her breath just now. 

It’s something Harry can deeply connect with. “You’d really do that for me?” 

The tone is so needy and quiet and simple, too simple for the tall ceilings and the white walls and the smell of sugary, hot punch, not enough to break through the cold pressing onto the windows, snowflakes prodding at the glass. But Louis’ smile melts the spike of ice sitting inside Harry’s throat. “Of course, Love. We love a great entrance, don’t we?” Her eyes shimmer violet in the dimmed lights but whenever she tilts her head just so, a flash of blue breaks through, reality determined to stay.  

“You wanna call me later?” Zayn asks. 

“What’d you mean?” 

“You don’t wanna talk anymore?” 

The back of Harry’s neck grows hot beneath her coat, itchy against the rough wool. She doesn’t move to take it off.  

Louis wipes across her lids, rubs the arche of her brows. “Nah. I think it’s better to just leave it be. Sleep over it.” 

“’kay.” 

A new song starts playing, something laced with heavy drums and airy guitars, a burst of excitement rolls through the crowd in the room, then some are dancing, jumping, whooping. Someone shouts something about getting ready, are you ready? Are you prepared? 

“Yeah.” 

Zayn’s hair is green now, the next colour of her rainbow, and she has been inviting people over to her flat, into her tiny flat, has been cooking for them. Harry looks at her, at the gentle slope of her cheeks where it used to be harsh, at the healthy rosiness of them, at the healthy glow of her finger nails. Harry’s own are covered in chapped polish, bitten short, rough. The gold sparkles as she tugs on a strand of Zayn’s straightened hair, as she twists it. “And you? Do you plan on staying for long? Go find Niall and finally kiss her?” 

“Niall’s with her parents,” Zayn murmurs, closing her eyes. “And I promised mine I'd be there by eleven.” 

According to the shouts in the room, it’s almost twelve. Almost a new year. “Will you go see them?” 

Zayn just sighs. Louis and Harry share a look, a sad smile, a nudge of thighs.  

Someone spots them, yells at them to come in, slurs their names, and raises a cup, a bright grin on their face, but then they are pulled into a hug and forget about them, people shift and dance and then the view into the room is blocked by a couple snogging against the frame of the door. Louis’ lips are tipped at the corners, her teeth come to nibble at the soft skin. In a world of harsh things, Louis’ lips look soft and forgiving.  

After a minute, Zayn puts her head between her knees, breathes out a rattling gasp, then straightens up and gets up with a dizzying speed, hands gripping the banister. She reaches for her coat and slips it on hastily, buttons it up with stiff fingers, reaches for the pack of cigarettes inside, then looks at them, one to the other, her lashes lowered, her jaw ticking. “You wanna get some fresh air?” 

Outside, the stars are rivalled. The grass and pebbles and asphalt of the grounds are yellow in the shine of the windows, the buildings high and looming, the air thick with smoke and the haze of firecrackers. Wails and screeches of rockets shooting into the sky drown out the cheers and amusement and fun and delight around them, people are huddled together and jumping from lamppost to lamppost, the fires of lighters and sparklers and happiness crackling around them.  

Only the snow is quiet. It endures the journey from the clouds through the chaos, patiently tumbling towards them, a silent hello. A frosty kiss to her skin. The sweat on her neck turns freezing, but Harry doesn’t mind, relishes the bites against her cheeks, the slicing cold against her forehead. Her curls tickle and prickle under the collar of her coat, tangled into her scarf, they feel greasy and matted beneath her beanie, and that, too, is alright.  

Louis’ pants are wet by the knees and ankles, fabric bunching and probably turning solid with every second. Louis’ gloves are wet, too, they uselessly peek out from her pockets where she fiddles with the zip. Harry tracks the movement, as they wait in the shadow of a tree, the branches and twigs and dead leaves doing no good to shield them from the wind.                                                   

Midnight comes and goes. The world erupts in colours and caresses and cries of happiness. And the snow keeps falling, unbothered, gentle, melting on the tips of their noses.  

Zayn’s eyes are sad, and her kisses against their cheeks are fleeting, and her hugs are light, eery, and the seconds it takes for her to leave, to stride down the street, through the crowds, are long and still, frozen in time, she’s a smudge in the darkness, and then there is just light and a person handing another person a bottle of champagne, and a child giggling on top of their parent’s shoulders, and the smell of sulphur. It’s the New Year, Baby.                          

Fingers come to rest against hers, slot themselves between her knuckles. They are wet from snow and sweat, and so cold it sends a jolt down Harry’s spine. She blinks and stares at Louis, Louis whose lips have lost their colour, whose smile is warm and lovely and loud against the deafening howls of the night. 

“Said I’d hold your hand, didn’t I?”


End file.
